“Let us hear all!” cried Mascarin, who
was the first to come to his senses. “Explain
yourself.”

“Simply this. I know such a young man,
and it was the thought of this that made me feel so
ill. He is thirty-three. He was at the Foundling
Hospital; he left it at the age of twelve and a half
years; and he has just such a scald on his shoulder,
which he got when he was apprenticed to a tanner.”

“And where,” asked Mascarin quickly, “is
this same young man? What is his name, and what
does he do for a living?”

“He is a painter; his name is Andre, and he
lives—­”

A blasphemous oath from Mascarin interrupted him.
“This is the third time,” said he fiercely,
“that this cursed fellow has crossed our path;
but I swear that it shall be the last.”

Hortebise and Catenac were livid with alarm.

“What do you intend to do?” asked they.

“I shall do nothing,” answered he; “but
you know that this Andre, in addition to being a painter,
is an ornamental sculptor and house decorator, and
so is often on lofty scaffolds. Have you never
heard that accidents frequently happen to that class
of people?”

CHAPTER XXI.

A MELANCHOLY MASHER.

When Mascarin spoke of suppressing the man who stood
in his way as easily as if he was alluding to extinguishing
a candle, he was not aware that there was one circumstance
which considerably enhanced the difficulty of his
task, for Andre had been forewarned, and this note
of warning had been sounded on the day on which he
had received that letter from Sabine, in which she
spoke in such despairing terms of her approaching
marriage, which she had been compelled to agree to
to save the honor of her family. This feeling
was strengthened by a long conversation he had had
with M. de Breulh-Faverlay and the Viscountess de
Bois Arden, in which it was unanimously decided that
the Count and Countess de Mussidan were victims of
some plot of which Henri de Croisenois was certainly
one of the promoters. He had no conception on
what side to look for the danger, but he had an instinctive
feeling that it was impending. He prepared, therefore,
to act on the defensive. It was not only his
life that was in danger, but his love and his future
happiness. M. de Breulh-Faverlay had also serious
apprehensions for the safety of a man for whom he
entertained so great a respect and regard.

“I would lay a heavy wager,” said he,
“that we have to do with some villainous blackmailers,
and the difficulty of the business is, that we must
do the work ourselves, for we dare not invite the aid
of the police. We have no proof to offer, and
the police will not stir a foot on mere suppositions,
and we should not earn the thanks of those we are
desirous of assisting if we called the attention of